


little deer

by viiisenya



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But only up until Shikadai is born, Canon Compliant, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, ShikaTema through the POV of Yoshino, Shikadai is blond bc fuck canon, Yoshino-centric, if kishimoto won't write women correctly then by god I WILL, no beta we die like men, this also turned out much longer than anticipated im sorry, very stream of consciousness-y style of writing, yoshino playing matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viiisenya/pseuds/viiisenya
Summary: she is a grieving wife, mourning the loss of her husband at the expense of a war that is won; she is a doting mother, watching her son fall in love with a windstorm of a woman.-or, shikamaru inadvertently helps his mother overcome the pains of grief by just being in love.





	little deer

**Author's Note:**

> hi friends i promise i'm working on _coffee shop soundtrack_ but i had to write this bc i couldn't stop thinking about it. i will forever be mad that we never got any more personality from characters like Yoshino besides nagging wife/overbearing mother, so if she seems out of character, that's because i gave her a character. i also gave Shikamaru a healthy relationship with his mother because i think that their relationship goes a lot beyond just him being afraid of her but whatever lol. in addition, i think Temari and Yoshino would have bonded really well given that Shikamaru thinks of them in similar lights idk i just really enjoyed this idea so i hope you all like it as well 
> 
> enjoy-

When the war is over and the cheers turn to tears and she is finally cleared to return to her home, Yoshino is more tired than she has ever been in her entire life.

She tries to ignore the uneasy feeling that sits in the pit of her belly as she guides her people back to the Nara compound, the last bit of Konohagakure that was (thankfully) not destroyed during Pein’s attack. The elderly, the sick, and the children all surround her and continue with their celebrations of a war finally won, and they cannot wait to welcome home their war heroes.

She smiles at them, like the dutiful wife of the clan head is supposed to, but she cannot shake the feeling of dread that shrouds her like storm clouds.

 _There’s nothing wrong_ , she tries telling herself. _They will be home soon and I will nag nag nag until they both go crazy._

Her husband has been to war before and returned bloodied and battered, but alive. Her son is smart and strong, a spitting image of her stubborn husband, and will return home to her complaining that this was troublesome and that was troublesome. They will return home and they will sleep and she will make them all their favorite foods and life will continue.

Life _will_ continue.

It is dusk when her home is cleared and she sits at the dining room table alone, waiting. They will be back any second, she knows, can feel it in her bones, and she will berate the both of them. For being reckless, no doubt, but it will be out of love. Her son will roll his eyes and her husband will squeeze out some lame joke until she glares at him into silent submission. She thinks that if she continues to ignore the numbness that blooms from her stomach to her fingertips, her husband will walk through the door and smile at her. 

“Ma!” It’s her son. She can’t help the way her mouth curls into a smile and the tears flood her eyes, and the tightness of her throat when he comes through the threshold.

“Ma,” he says again, and his eyes are tired, and his face is muddied but he is here. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ma, I’m so sorry.”

She thinks he’s apologizing for keeping her waiting but she can’t care because he is _home._ Her boy is finally home and she crosses the floor in two giant steps to suffocate him in a hug around his neck. When did her baby boy get so tall? When did he get so big?

“Oh my boy,” she weeps as she presses a hand to the nape of his neck, rubbing it like he is not seventeen but instead seven again. “My boy, my boy, my boy.” 

Her first and only child, her precious son. He is his father’s son in every aspect but when he cries, and when he laughs, she cannot help but feel so much pride to know that he looks just like _her._ Her boy, her little deer.

She can barely hear the door open again and the heavy footsteps that should be no other than her husband. Her husband who will laugh and call her a worrisome woman and crush them both in a deathly hug borne of love and survival.

But when she opens her bleary eyes, it is only Chouza who stands in the doorway.

His head is bowed and only then can she hear her son whispering to her _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

No. _No no no._  

“Yoshino-san,” Chouza says; his voice that is usually so boisterous but now is just sad. “I’m sorry.”

Shinobi do not scream.

It is the first rule they teach you in the academy; not to scream.

But, she is a woman first, and a woman in love second, and when she screams, she cannot find it in her to care if all of Konohagakure can hear her.

* * *

Months after the war has ended, the Alliance is newly strengthened, and Konohagakure rebuilds from the ground up, she finds that her home is eerily empty.

People come through often, it is true: expectant mothers wishing to gain blessings from the Nara deer and from Yoshino-neesan; the clan elders shuffling through to discuss politics and other boorish topics; children bumbling in for sweets.

They come and go, never staying longer for two hours, until she is left to her own devices.

She finds that cleaning is helpful, but there is only so much to clean until the house is left spotless and the smell of disinfectant makes her head hurt.

Cooking is nice too, but she is alone in her giant home to cook for only herself.

(She makes enough for herself and her husband, leaving it out on the porch until the food has gone cold and her heart even colder.)

Shikamaru had moved out some years before. He talked about wanting to have his own privacy and to being more independent. Her heart had hurt from the words, but she understood. She couldn’t keep her son confined to the Nara compounds forever, and he would have to carve out his own life eventually.

“I’ll move back in, Ma,” he reassured her before he left their home (to his apartment just four blocks west). “When I become clan head, but I guess that won’t be for a long time.” 

He is clan head now, by default. He _has_ been clan head, ever since his father took his last breath.

It hurts her to think about that. 

Her baby boy, who is only seventeen, is clan head. 

(Her husband, who died saving their world, passing the title on.)

She’s heard talk about how formidable her son is; how great a shinobi he is. Hokage-class, some have even said. He is more than capable of being clan head at seventeen, but it still stings because that is _her_ son.

Her son who is busy with diplomatic missions to Sunagakure and sometimes even Kirigakure, forging good relations with the other villages. Her son who stands beside the Rokudaime Hokage to spill wisdom and ensure all of their safety. Her son who is _busy busy busy_ and working as hard as his father (when he was still alive). She is proud but she cannot help feeling sad, and awfully alone.

She is sitting at the table with a pot of tea and two cups, waiting for no one in particular when she hears the door being struggled with.  
  
“Who is it?” She calls and wanders towards the door. They do not answer and she has half a mind to reach for the hidden kunai kept beneath the step until the door finally slides open. 

“Hey, Ma.”

It is her son. With his things packed and strapped to his back, tucked beneath his arm, carried beside him in a luggage.

“Shikamaru?” 

She had thought it was a joke, when he first said it. When he first declared that he’d move back in when he became clan head (which shouldn’t have been for years from now, but not everyone can get what they wish for).

He is clan head now, she remembers, as if she wasn’t thinking about it just three minutes ago.

“Oh,” he says as he kicks his shoes off and looks past her. “You’ve got tea out?”

“I—” She doesn’t know how to say that she had initially made enough for herself and his father, feeling so foolish all of a sudden.

“How’d you know I was coming?” There is something knowing in his eyes, and the easiness of his voice calms her.

Maybe, she had known all along. 

A mother’s intuition.

“I had a feeling.” 

* * *

“Ma?”

Her son’s voice carries from the front door all the way to the kitchen, which is quite odd—he usually announces his arrival home instead of calling out to her.

A sudden panic rises in her as she remembers the night he came home, calling her in the same way.

“Shikamaru?” She calls back, trying to stomp out any worry in her voice. She wipes her hands on her apron and walks quickly to the door. “I’m making dinner. Is everything—”

She stops right in her tracks and the way her eyebrows shoot up happens before she can even think against it. 

Having guests over is not uncommon. Her son bringing his friends home is also not uncommon. But, this is—

“Ma,” her son says again. “Temari is here on a _diplomatic_ mission and she didn’t want to eat out tonight. Is it okay if she joins us for dinner?”

She suppresses raising an eyebrow at the way her son emphasizes _diplomatic_ as if she’s never heard of Temari’s missions to Konohagakure as diplomatic envoy. Before, she had wondered what sort of sick game Tsunade-sama was playing at by assigning her son to be Temari’s escort during her missions, especially since the botched chuunin exams.

But, after listening to him complain about her and how often he mentioned her over dinner, a mother’s suspicion began to grow like a weed in her mind.

Temari bows her head. “I hope I’m not intruding, Nara-san.”

 _So formal, this one._ It makes her smile.

When she glances at her son, she notices that his ears are bright red and his lips are set into an impossibly straight line. His hands are fisted in his pockets and his shoulders are tensed. A nervous habit he learned from his father. It is a bittersweet reminder.

_And so embarrassed is my son._

“Please, Temari-chan,” she says, forcing herself not to further embarrass her baby boy. “Just call me Yoshino.”

Her son lets out a breath of relief that he quickly masks in a fit of coughs. Temari is either blissfully unaware, or good at pretending not to notice. 

Dinner is a show.

She watches in amusement as her son and his _diplomatic_ partner bicker over nonsense, and steal glances at each other when there is a rare moment of silence. 

Temari is kind, and talks about everything and anything with her. It is a sweet change of pace to recall old memories and answer questions that keep her mind occupied enough not to wander to the dark corners she finds herself in on the lonelier days (the ones where she wishes she was not retired and had followed her son and husband to war; to have kissed him once more; to have told him she loved him a hundred times instead of waiting for him to come home to say so). She appreciates the company and is grateful for the easiness of Temari’s conversation.

Her son offers to take her plates to the kitchen and Temari offers to help clean up.

When she insists it is fine and that she will steep some tea for all of them, Temari smiles and thanks her again. 

When she finally brings the tea to the tea room where they have retreated, there is quietness in place of the arguing that had taken place just five minutes ago.

And when she slides the door open, loudly announcing her arrival, she finds her son five feet away from his diplomatic partner.

Even from the distance, she can see the red tips of his ears.

* * *

Temari comes for dinner as often as her diplomatic missions to Konohagakure allow her too. She has no complaints; having one more person in the house makes it much livelier, and she suspects her son would agree (but only because of _who_ their guest was).

At first, after dinner, her son would walk their guest back to her apartment. 

“So she doesn’t have to go alone,” he would say, as if his escort-assignment was not a full-fledged kunoichi of Sunagakure, and the daughter of famed Rasa to boot. As if she could not bat away danger with just a fling of the giant metal fan strapped to her back.

She doesn’t say anything about the fact, or about the way he wears his lies like scarlet war paint. 

Eventually, as the months march forward, Temari begins staying over in their guest bedroom. It is her suggestion; one that has Temari’s eyes blown wide and her son paling as if he’s seen a ghost. Temari recovers faster than her son, as expected, and is the first to respond.

“Yoshino-san,” Temari says hesitantly the first night. “Really, it’s okay. You’re very kind but I would feel like I’m overstepping and—and lodging is provided by the Alliance.”  

“Nonsense,” she responds. “Please, it’s really no trouble to us. We’ve got this big house to ourselves and this way, it saves you a walk back to your apartment, no?”

When she glances at her son, he looks as if he is going to vomit. 

 _Eighteen years old_ , she thinks, _and so frightened of a girl staying over._  

Temari acquiesces when Shikamaru gives a subtle nod, and she can’t help feeling particularly smug.

“Thank you again, Yoshino-san,” Temari says when she ushers her to the guest bedroom. It is on the opposite side of the house from her son’s room, as she’s planned. 

“Of course,” she responds as she reaches for the blankets stored overhead. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come knock on my door.” 

She leaves their guest with a smile and bids her a good night, wandering all the way back to her room with a girlish grin.

Late late late into the night, there are soft footsteps that pass her room. Shinobi steps are no match for the old wood of their home, and she knows from years of experience that any movement can and _will_ be heard. She cannot say who is traveling where, but it does not stop her from feeling triumphant (the feeling occupies her mind instead of thinking of the empty space beside her).

In the morning, she goes to Temari first and raps a knuckle against the door. When there is no answer, she wonders if they are aware of her suspicions and would go as far as sharing a room together for her to walk in on. Upon sliding the door open, she sees that Temari is fast asleep in her own bed. The covers are pulled over her shoulders and she can only see her blonde hair, the subtle rise and fall of every breath she takes.

She closes the door and heads, with slight haste, to her son’s room. 

When she knocks, her son says to come in.

She slides the door open and sees him pulling a shirt over his head, hair still down and eyes underscored in black.

“Did you not sleep well, honey? You look a little tired,” She asks innocently and he stiffens ever so slightly.

“I—yeah, I had a hard time sleeping.”  Her ears did not fail her it seems.

As she surveys her son’s room, reminiscing the childish posters she bought for him that have long faded, her eyes fall to the corner of the room.

It is purple, like a bruise, among the greens and greys; it is purple, like the exact shirt she had seen Temari go to bed in. 

It takes every ounce of her will not to twist her mouth in an all-knowing grin.

Her son notices her split second glance to the corner of his room and his neck is instantly swathed in reds and pinks like a summer sunset.

“I’m going to start making breakfast,” she announces. “Does Temari-chan need to be somewhere or will you two be staying?” 

He swallows and rakes his fingers through his hair. “We’ll— _she_ doesn’t—ah, we don’t need to be anywhere until noon.”

“Oh good,” she says. “Will you wake her then?”

Her son has the grace to blush and then nods, but does not follow her out the door when she leaves to the kitchen. 

At breakfast, Temari makes an offhand comment about the _bug bites_ on her neck that has her son scowling and shooting her pointed looks from across the table. 

She pretends and plays along, much to their horror, and laments the infestation that does not exist.

(What she does not notice is her son’s relief in seeing her be herself, smiling easily and being present in the moment.)

* * *

The Nara have very basic proficiency in elemental transformation. _Very_ basic. Their mastery lies, of course, with yin release and manipulating the shadows. So when word finally spreads that the great war hero (and possibly greatest futon user in the entire _world_ ) Sabaku no Temari has been present in their compound all this time, the children are ecstatic.

“I might ruin the forest,” she tells the small ones sheepishly as they continue bombarding her with requests of creating a windstorm.

They want to see a tornado, and sliced trees, and _oh!_ could she even make the deer fly?

She watches from the porch as the twenty-some children dance around Temari, laughing and cheering at the small gusts of wind she shoots towards them.

Temari pats this one and that one on the head, shows the ones in the Academy how to weave basic futon, and eventually plops down on the grass with them to tell stories. From the distance, she can hear that they ask her about Sunagakure and her brother, the Kazekage. They are amazed in her retelling of battles alongside living legends, and that she gets to travel from her home to theirs so often.

She can hear the encouragement Temari gives to the girls; about not being discouraged by the strength the boys have; that they too can become great shinobi in time. 

 _She is great with children_ ; she thinks as she continues to watch with a content smile. She is about to say as much to her son, who sits beside her nursing a cup of tea that has long gone cold, but when she glances at him, the words stop in her throat. 

She has never seen her boy with such a soft look in his eyes, or the way that his mouth is curved in the gentlest smile (a smile he has inherited from her, but one she has not seen on her own face in quite some time). It is obvious where his line of sight falls onto, and there is no doubt what that look spells out. 

_Our boy’s in love, Shikaku._

For the first time in a long while, the thought of her husband has her smiling without the bitterness of grief overpowering her senses.

Later that evening, while Temari is dining with an old friend, she asks her son when he will be providing her with grandchildren.

He chokes at the question and blames his near-death experience on a fishbone lodged in his throat, despite the fact that they were not eating any fish at all.

* * *

It is one year and four months later that her son asks for the family ring.

She blinks at him several times, in an attempt to calm the giddiness that rises from her belly and clouds her mind. _The ring!_

She does not have to ask who it is for, the red tips of his ears and constipated look he has on his face is an answer in itself.

 _After all this time, he is still so embarrassed by his affections._  

He is his father’s son, after all.

She wonders to herself if Temari would need it resized.

It is exactly one month later that Temari is at her door, without her son but their family’s ring on her finger. She carries with her a bag from her favorite pastry shop, a world-famous tea mix from Sunagakure, and a small jewelry box.

They eat the pineapple buns Temari brought, a small detail mentioned in conversation some months ago, but she is still grateful that it was remembered. They sip the tea from Sunagakure, a fruity tasting blend that lives up to its world-famous standard. The jewelry box sits between them, almost like a hurdle.

When there is a lapse in conversation, Temari bows her head in front of her and she is shocked by the display.

“I haven’t had a mother in a long time,” Temari tells her, repeating a sad fact she was disclosed to years ago. “But, just as I promise to be a good wife for Shikamaru, I promise to do my best as a daughter for you. I hope you can accept me into your family—”

Her hands dart out to grab her shoulders, urging her to sit back up. “Oh you silly girl, raise your head.” 

When Temari finally sits up, there are tears in her eyes. Tears that have not yet fallen, and probably will not fall. They are held back by the fierce willpower she knows this futon master has within her, and she has always known that Temari is not shaken easily. 

She knows the gap left by her mother’s death, and the sensitivity of having to be a mother-figure to her two younger brothers. She knows the pain of loss, and can relate to the devastation left in its wake. She knows what it means to Temari to have a mother again.

Her hands reach for Temari’s, the one with the ring, and she gives it a gentle squeeze.

“Listen to me carefully,” she says as her thumb runs over the Nara ring (the same one that her husband slipped onto her finger so many years ago). 

“You do not need to ask for any acceptance into this family,” she says softly. “Even before this ring was on your finger, I accepted you as my daughter.” 

Temari manages a smile and nods, and it takes her a moment to realize that _she’s_ started crying.

“I promise to be a good mother to you,” she vows. She has always wanted a daughter, after all.

“Thank you, Yoshino-san,” Temari says and squeezes her hand back.

She shakes her head. “It is okaa-san now.”

In the box is a necklace formerly worn by her mother, Karura, as it is Sunagakure custom for mothers-in-law to exchange jewelry. It is a simple piece but elegant, and the gesture warms her heart. These two, she decides, have chosen each other well.

They talk about Karura, Temari’s two brothers, and Baki-sensei. Mentions of her father are scarce and they are not memories that gleam with pride or admiration. It is at these instances she decides to say what she can of her husband that will not pain her, recalling memories that make them both laugh. 

The weight of grief does not seem so heavy as she remembers her husband’s smile and his laugh, nor does the silver band on her finger seem so tight with pain.

And when she looks at the ring that was once given to her, she finds that Temari did not have to resize it at all.

* * *

The wedding is almost as extravagant as Naruto and Hinata’s, much to her son’s dismay.

Five Kage do not converge, but two sit beside each other in high spirits. There are hundreds of attendees, people of Konohagakure and Sunagakure alike. Gifts pile as high as the Hokage Monument it seems, and there is enough food to feed the Alliance.

The wedding is as political as it is romantic. To solidify the bond between the two villages, once and for all with a bond as strong as marriage. One would have thought that the friendship between Naruto and the Kazekage would have sufficed, but it is a testament to Temari and Shikamaru’s statuses (and their worth) within their respective villages.

She has to remind her son of that.

“I wanted a small wedding,” her son broods beside her while they watch Temari speak with her brother.

“This is a big deal,” she says. “You two are very important, as shinobi _and_ diplomats. This is good for the sake of peace. _Maintaining_ peace.”

Her son ignores her and frowns. “Temari doesn’t like being around this much people.”

“And neither do you,” she retorts. “But here you are. At least look a little happy.” 

He glances over at her and something in his face softens. “I’m happy. But, I wish he was here. I wish they were both here.” 

The quietness of his voices sends her back fifteen years when her son was just a small boy, the wistfulness of a child who wishes for candy to appear out of thin air.

He is happy. There is no denying it in the way he will hold his wife’s hand; in the way he looks at her fondly; in the way he will press a kiss to the crown of her head when no one is paying attention.

But it is not complete, will never be complete, without his father or his sensei.

She feels this just as much.

“They are here,” she whispers to him. “They will always be here. And they are so proud of you.  _I_ am proud of you.”

Her son does not look at her, but she knows he is blinking back tears. Always so easy to cry, but it is the thing she loves about him. Her little boy has always been open to his vulnerability, whether he wanted it or not.

He squeezes her hand and finally looks at her with a lazy smile (his father’s smile).

“Proud that I’m me or proud that I finally married Temari after all your nagging?” 

She has to restrain herself from slapping him upside the head because of course the answer is she is proud that he is her son!

But, the laughter that falls from her lips comes easily, and her face hurts from smiling instead of crying.

* * *

“Shikadai,” her son says as he leads her to the hospital room where her daughter-in-law and first grandchild are resting. “His name is Shikadai.” 

The newest Nara is swaddled head to toe and placed beside his mother, who is fast asleep. 

“A boy,” she says. “The heir to the Nara clan is a boy once again.”

When she peers over the cradle to look in, she feels as if she is looking at her son. There is not much to tell yet about whose what he has inherited, but she knows for certain that he has her son’s nose. What she would give to have her husband squeeze her shoulder at that instance, to be looking at their grandchild together.

The thought makes her sad, but is not enough to overpower the happiness that swells inside of her because she has a _grandchild_!

“Yeah, a boy,” her son whispers. “But…”

He reaches over and gently pulls the blanket back from her grandson’s head, and it is there she notices that he is—

“Blond!” 

The little tufts of hair at the top of his head are spun gold, the same color as Temari’s. The hairs are thick and shine brilliantly under the hospital lights, and she begins thinking of her son but _blond._

“A blond Nara,” her son says in a voice laced with pride. “The first of his kind. I thought Nara genes were strong but I guess Temari’s got me beat… again.”

“A blond Nara,” she echoes her son. “He’s beautiful.”  
  
“Just like his ma, huh?” Her son runs the back of his finger against his son’s cheek. “Beautiful just like his ma.”

When Temari finally wakes, she is greeted with a scene of her mother-in-law and husband crying over her son. Her daughter-in-law jolts forward with panic, fearing that something has happened—or something has been remembered that would have them both in this state.

She has to tell Temari that they are not crying because they are sad, but because they are happy. They are so happy. It is what Shikaku would have wanted; his wife smiling through tears of joy and not grief; his son with the woman of his dreams; a grandson to carry on his legacy.

She feels something warm grasp her shoulder, and as she turns to ask her son what is wrong, she sees that he is nowhere near her but beside his wife. And when she places her hand over her shoulder, just for an instance, it is like he is there with them.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed this and are at all able too, please leave a comment! i love reading your guys' feedback :) 
> 
> and, please check out my other ShikaTema fics _c plus_ and _coffee shop soundtrack_ if you haven't already  <3


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